The Fairchild Murders
by Le Mad Hatter
Summary: A ghost begins to haunt an old mansion and people begin to die in mysterious ways. Cain must solve the mystery before it is too late and someone close to him pays the ultimate price.
1. Prolog: The Death of Thomas Fairchild

**Prolog****: The Death of Thomas Fairchild**

There was only a sliver of moon that night. She remembered it all too well; the way the thin moonlight had cast everything into shadows embroidered with a dreamlike glow.

"Thomas! Thomas!" A woman's voice was loud in the silence of the garden. She laughed happily, her voice echoing on the high white-brick garden walls. Stopping, she rested one hand on the smooth stone. As she breathed deep, concern flashed through her eyes for a moment- but only a moment. He was hiding, just around the corner, most like. He was just waiting to leap out and grab her when she least expected it. The woman smiled, her eyes brightening as she called out again. "Thomas, we're both much too old to be playing hide and seek like this."

There was no answer, as she had well expected.

She moved forward, toward the bend in the garden wall. Her hand was tight against the smooth surface of the wall as she took cautious steps. A bird called out, frightening her and setting her skin to crawling. "Thomas, please." Her voice had risen to a plea.

Rounding the corner, she caught sight of the gazebo. A human form was caught in a slanting ray of moonlight, which darted eerily in through the open walls."Thomas!" she cried, a smile playing across her face. Lifting the hem of her skirt, she ran forward. She mounted the steps leading up to the main platform of the gazebo, hurrying up them to the silent form of her dearest Thomas.

She knew instantly that something was wrong. He leant against one of the seven supports that held up the peaked roof. His head, with a sleek coat of graying brown hair, was at an odd angle, the silver threads catching the light in an eerie manner. "Thomas?" Her voice echoed strangely in the darkness, quieter than she had meant it to be. She reached out a hand to touch his chest, above the heart. No beat of his heart. Her hand darted upwards, to hover beneath his nose and over his slightly opened mouth. No breath of his lungs. She caressed the side of his face gently, then opened her mouth to scream.

Thomas was dead.


	2. Chapter One: The Red Room

**Chapter One: ****The Red Room**

Earl Cain Hargreaves alit from the carriage, shading his eyes as he looked up at the sprawling mansion. So this was where his aunt lived; the fabled Fairchild Manor. His eyes scanned the roof, the rows of windows, and the places where the red brick turned gray. There certainly was nothing special about the place, though it had been the subject of many a newspaper headline since Lord Fairchild's mysterious death three weeks past.

The front door of the manor opened and a man dressed in black came out. He was abnormally tall, and skeletally thin. The black suit he wore draped loosely over his frame as though it were just a bit of cloth wrapped around his figure. He walked slowly, as though every step were painful to him. He stopped right in front of Cain, looking down at him like a disappointed tutor condescending to his worst pupil. "Welcome to Fairchild Manor." When he spoke, his voice was as slow as his movements, stretching the words as though for dramatic effect. "I am Thompson, Lady Fairchild's butler and caretaker of the manor." He paused again, as though every sentence took great effort. The butler's eyes raked over Cain's figure, evaluating him in the same way a prize fighter evaluates his opponent.

Cain stiffened, finding it difficult to endure the way Thompson was looking him over. The man was treating him the way one would treat a lesser, definitely not the proper behavior of a butler to an Earl, especially one of the prestigious Hargreaves line. "Earl Cain Hargreaves," he said curtly, fastening his yellow eyes on Thompson's brown ones. "I trust you will take good care of my trunk when you take it to my room." He nodded once, then set off toward the front door without a backward glance. That Thompson fellow needed to be put in his place. Cain trusted Riff would sort him out.

The front door was painted white with a large square of stained glass set in. The glass was cut to resemble an Easter lily, all white and gold and green. Cain barely looked at it as he opened the door and went inside. He was alone in the entrance hall, though he could hear voices coming from another room in the house. The walls, papered in yellow and white stripes, lent to an airy, open feeling that somehow left Cain feeling cold. Light spilled down from windows placed above the door, filling the room with sunshine. A high ceiling made room for an ostentatious chandelier, made of gold and hung with diamonds. No…that gold was brass and the diamonds were clearly made of cleverly cut glass. Cain smiled. It was a pleasant surprise to see how thrifty the wealthy could be.

The hallway beyond the grand French doors that graced the far end of the airy yellow entrance hall was surprisingly dark. No windows opened onto this oddly narrow passageway and the only light came from carefully spaced gas lamps. Between the lamps were evidence of the Fairchild heritage; here was a portrait of grim William Fairchild in a tall horned wig, a little way away hung a picture of the lovely Cassandra Fairchild who had married into the royal family of Hungary, and there…Cain peered into yellow eyes, set like topaz above a haughtily smiling mouth. Annette Hargreaves, the great-aunt whose marriage to Octavius Fairchild had, albeit indirectly, brought Cain here. He smiled and traced the black curls that framed his long-dead aunt's face.

The loud bang of a door flung closed startled Cain away from his examination of the painting. A girl around his own age, though dressed in the black-and-white uniform of a maidservant, was hurrying down the hallway bearing a gleaming silver tea service. She was pretty, in a plump, petite, farmer's daughter sort of way, with wiry red hair escaping in long curls from beneath the white cap set on her head. As she darted by, Cain heard tea sloshing from within the tall silver pot. She stopped at a door a few paces away, where she juggled the heavy tray from hand to hand trying to both open the door and keep the tea from spilling out onto the carpeted floor.

Cain startled the girl by putting his own hand on the knob. He pushed the door open and she ran inside, a hot red blush surmounting the paleness of her cheeks.

"Thank you, Mary. You may leave us now." The girl, Mary, exited as quickly as she had come in, brushing past Cain in her haste to leave. The voice that dismissed the maid belonged to none other than Cain's aunt, the Lady Elissa Fairchild. She was seated in a high-backed chair upholstered in emerald velvet, which seemed designed only to complement the darkness of her black crepe mourning gown. Her blonde hair was piled atop her head in an elegant chignon, secured there with a single shining black hairpin made of hematite. When she spotted Cain, she smiled and stood up. "Cain! It's been so long since I saw you last!" Elissa folded him into her arms.

Truthfully, it had been less than four years since she had married Cain's uncle Thomas Fairchild. The Hargreaves family had only been invited to the wedding for propriety's sake, and Alexis, Cain's father, had refused to attend, forcing Cain to go in his place. Elissa had been substantially younger than Thomas, and, for all her matronly airs and affectations, she was barely thirty and looked younger. She and Cain had only seen each other the once, but she had heard enough about his unusual hobby of solving mysteries and collecting poisons to be proud to claim him as her nephew, no matter how distant the bloodline.

"I'm glad to see you again," Cain straightened his coat, suddenly aware of others in the room. He looked around, wondering how he could have missed them when he first came in.

Elissa's eyes followed the same path as Cain's as she realized that she hadn't introduced the other guests. "I've been a dreadful hostess already, haven't I?" Her cheeks flushed slightly pink and Cain realized that she still considered herself to be the same society girl that she had been ten years ago. He hid an amused smile.

Elissa gestured to the man who sat nearest the door. He was old, with a grandfatherly air about his round, wrinkled face. A shock of thick white hair covered his head and two beetle-black eyes peered out from under thick black eyebrows. "This is Mr. Martin Nettles, my late husband's barrister…and the executor of his will." The barrister nodded, absently patting his round stomach. "Mr. Victor Young…" She frowned as she pronounced the name, indicating a young man wearing a bottle green suit over a yellow silk waistcoat. He smiled at Cain, raising his glass of brandy in a toast. "And his associate, Mr. William Brice." The thin, lanky man who leant against the mantel straightened at Elissa's mention of his name. "William _Howard_ Brice," he corrected, putting down the figurine he had been studying. His threadbare grey jacket was patched on the elbows, giving him the appearance of a pauper.

Elissa sighed annoyedly. "William Howard Brice," she repeated, drumming her fingers impatiently on her arm. Her visage brightened as she motioned toward the final two people in the room, who were sharing a couch in the corner: A girl, her face hidden behind a large leather-bound book, and a young man, his blue eyes made large by wire-rimmed glasses, was staring intently over the girl's shoulder at the page. "My step-daughter, Delilah, and our neighbor, Alistair Fleetwood." Alistair looked up, nodded, then looked back at the book only to discover that the girl, Delilah, had turned the page.

The last introduction was made with a cheerful smile, as Elissa crossed the room and stood behind the chair immediately next to the one she had so recently vacated. Resting her hands proudly on the back of the burgundy high-backed chair, she introduced the last of her guests. "Mr. Holland Green, the celebrated clairvoyant. He will be leading us in a séance later this night." He smiled smugly, patting Elissa's hand over his shoulder patronizingly. His skin was sallow and pockmarked around the nose.

Cain took off his hat and bowed his head slightly. "A pleasure to meet you all. Earl Cain Hargreaves." He smiled insincerely. Holland Green…he had heard that name before, but couldn't place it.

"I believe I will retire now." A thin voice rose over the heads of the people gathered in the parlor. It was Delilah. She folded her book with a loud crack and stood up, obviously surprised to see that every person in the room had focused their attention on her. Except for Cain, she was surprised to note. She looked down at Alistair, who was still sitting on the couch, looking bewildered, as usual. "Goodnight." She nodded curtly and swept out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

The room was left in shock.

Victor motioned for William to pour more brandy into his glass, and the threadbare man grudgingly complied, sloshing a little of the golden liquid onto the burgundy carpet. Victor Young took the glass with a patronizing smile and a wink. He sipped it delicately, aware that the eyes that had been watching Delilah were now watching him. "Temperamental thing, isn't she?" He sighed dramatically, twirling the ends of his hair with his free hand as though he were a schoolgirl.

Cain's mouth tightened. He already disliked the foppish dandy. Frowning, he spoke up. "Shouldn't we talk about what we all came here to discuss?" William Howard Brice looked up once again from his study of the porcelain knickknacks on the mantel, suddenly interested in the conversation. "The death of Lord Thomas Fairchild, whose body lies in the mausoleum barely two hundred yards from where we stand. Haven't we all come here to find out what happened to him?"

"He was murdered. Everyone knows that!" The grandfatherly Martin Nettles stood up, his face turning red from annoyance. "Why can't you people just let him rest in peace, instead of stirring up all this nonsense about the how's and why's of it?"

Victor was smiling now, truly enjoying himself. "Careful, grandpa, or we might start thinking you did it." His affectedly aristocratic voice grated on the ears of all present. He sloshed the brandy around in his glass, an amused grin plastered across his face. "I have at last seen the ghost of Thomas, may his soul rest in peace, with my own two eyes."

"Is that why you were running screaming through the halls last night?" William asked, looking down on his friend. "I thought you were drunk out of your wits."

"On the contrary: I was quite sober." Victor drank again from his glass, which was nearing empty. "On my way to bed, I heard some strange sound in the garden. Thinking that it may be the sounds of vagabonds coming in the night to rob us all blind, I went to investigate. I was in the garden, under the bright light of the moon, but, alas, I lost my way." He looked directly at Elissa now, his blue eyes bright as reflective snow. "But the gazebo was not as dark as the rest of the garden. No, it was lit from within." His eyes moved away from his host, covering each of the guests from head to toe in the blanket of his gaze. "And it was there that I saw the shade of the late Lord Fairchild." Bowing his head dramatically, Victor concluded his tale by draining the glass.

William laughed. "And then you ran through the halls, screaming as loud as possible? It's more likely that you woke with a headache and a vague memory of embarrassing yourself and invented the ghost story to make up for it."

"It's the truth!" Victor leapt to his feet, dropping the now-empty brandy glass to the floor, where it rolled away beneath the couch where Alistair sat alone. "I saw him, all grey and glowing, hovering in the air a foot above the place where his body had been discovered." His cultured voice deteriorated as he grew more and more agitated. "I saw the ghost of Thomas Fairchild!"

Victor's words were lost beneath a loud feminine shriek. All heads swiveled toward the windows, beyond which lay the garden.

Suddenly there was chaos. Elissa rushed the door, calling out her step-daughter's name. "Delilah? Delilah, answer me!" As the back of her bustled black dress disappeared through the door, Alistair shakily stood. The color drained from his face and he followed on Elissa's heels.

The room was soon empty of all save Cain and Nettles the barrister. The old man wheezed as he pushed himself up from his chair and steadied himself with his cane. "Forgive me for not rushing to investigate with the rest of them, Earl, but my knees are not what they used to be." A hoarse laugh croaked from between the man's dry colorless lips as he shuffled toward the door, causing him to cough.

Cain nodded, and pivoted on his heel before sauntering out of the room in search of the source of the piteous cry. He stopped just outside the door which Mary had rushed through earlier on her way to bring tea to the party gathering in the red parlor. The tea had gone untouched, Cain vaguely recalled before putting the thought aside. He did not know the way…but he heard Elissa's sharp cries of "Delilah!" echoing from a place down the hallway to his left. He rushed after the sound, soon catching sight of a door, flung wide and open onto a patio of white wood. Ivy and Morning Glory climbed the latticed walls of this veranda, but Cain did not have time to smell the flowers. He saw the gazebo in which Thomas had been murdered, and where Victor had claimed to see the ghost. Elissa and the guests were gathered within, looking down at a form that, despite the bright sunlight, lay in shadow. Red painted the railing that enclosed the gazebo, dripping down the sides like spilled wine, but much thicker.

In less than a moment, Cain found himself in the gazebo alongside them. Elissa was sobbing into Holland Green's shoulder. The clairvoyant looked incredibly pleased with himself. Alistair and Victor looked as though they were about to vomit, though for some reason triumph was mixed with the disgust on Victor's face. William's actions were, perhaps, the most unusual. He had produced a pad of paper from somewhere on his person and was sketching the scene.

Cain pushed forward, curious to see whose blood trailed across the pristine white-washed floor. Blank eyes stared up at him, topped by waves of wiry red hair. A white cap lay not far away, stained in splotches by blood. A knife protruded from an aproned chest, near the center. Mary, the maidservant, who had rushed to do her duty…she was dead.


	3. Chapter Two: An Accusation Is Made

((Took me long enough to write it, yes? I am actively working on this fanfic as of...NOW! So get ready to see updates soon! As in, within two or so weeks. Excited?

There's a pretty neat scene with Riff in the first part of this, and that is one of the reasons it was difficult for me to continue this story. Certain events that occured within the series got me pretty down about their relationship...but I got over it and set this mystery earlier on in the storyline...most likely pre-Mikaila. They know about the Organization Delilah and Alexis, but not about certain other things.

Now that's out of the way, and I leave you to read and enjoy!))

**Chapter Two: An Accusation Is Made**

The white lace curtains fluttered in the breeze from the open window. Cain's hair blew back from his face as he leaned over the sill. The garden below looked serene in the rich light from the setting sun. The white roof of the gazebo stood out among the green of the plants, the red stain barely hidden through a web of foliage. The wind lifted and tangled his hair as he closed his eyes.

The sound of a footstep on the wood floor startled Cain, and he turned quickly to face the intruder. He exhaled with a smile when he saw the tall blonde figure of his butler. "You startled me, Riff." Cain put a hand through his windblown black hair. "Have you learned anything from the servants?"

Riff shook his head gravely, bending to straighten the blankets on the narrow bed. "The cook said Mary had gone to deliver the tea to your aunt and she hadn't been back since."

"So she must have gone out to the garden the moment Elissa had dismissed her…" Cain turned away again, musing over the possibilities. "She was murdered within half an hour. Her killer was able to escape in the time it took us to respond to her scream, and, you may remember, my Uncle Thomas was murdered during the short time he was separated from Aunt Elissa." When he faced Riff once more, Cain was smiling, not with glee, but with the thrill that came with piecing things together. "Our man is quick on his feet. It seems we are faced with a very talented killer." He clasped his hands together rapturously in anticipation of the challenge of deducing the identity of the murderer.

Riff nodded. Cain was usually correct in his assumptions. This murder, however, might not be so easily solved by the young Earl. Riff had a feeling that grew in the very pit of his stomach, and he was not yet sure if it was good or bad. He looked down, seeing the outline of his black shoes against the polished bright honey of the wood floor. When he looked up again, Cain was leaning out the window once more. "You are expected at dinner within the hour. Shall I help you dress?"

Cain simply held out his wrist. Riff smiled and fastened the row of tiny buttons on the cuff of Cain's shirtsleeve. The buttons glittered in the dimming light. Cain watched Riff's fingers move deftly over the vulnerable skin of his inner wrist, face carefully neutral. "That will do." Cain pulled his arm away, running his fingers absently over that same row of buttons, his eyes following the butler as he retrieved a dinner jacket from Cain's suitcase. Riff held the garment up and helped Cain shrug into it. The young Earl fastened the buttons at the front, examining his appearance in the small round mirror that hung above the delicate washstand. His eyes met Riff's in the mirror and he smiled, satisfied, absently touching his cravat.

Riff moved forward, clutching a tortoiseshell comb in his good hand. He gently pulled the teeth through Cain's tousled hair. He finished and inspected his employer's ensemble. Delicately brushing a few stray hairs from Cain's lapel, he smiled. "You cut a fine figure, milord."

"Thank you, Riff. Lead the way?"

The butler dipped his head in reply and held the door open.



The dining room of Fairchild Manor was brightly aglow with the light of a hundred candles flickering in the pair of chandeliers that graced the ceiling. Faint gold scrolling designs marked the wallpaper, catching the light and shining dazzlingly. The cold white tile underfoot had been covered with a Persian carpet, woven impressively with flowers and arabesques and scrolls. The room was warmed by a large fireplace at the far end, a mammoth construction of polished white granite and gold insets. Amidst all the warmth and splendor, the room was cold, haunted still by Mary's murder.

The chair at the head of the table was all too noticeably empty, as it had been since the untimely death of the man of the house. The far end of the long table was dimly lit, and around the single weakly glowing candelabra were clustered Eliza and the other guests. Holland sat at her right side, hands folded delicately under his chin as he smiled up at Cain.

The clairvoyant was the only one smiling. William dutifully sloshed brandy into Victor's glass, then, grim-faced, added some to his own. Across the table from those two sat Alistair, his eyes downcast and his hands curved tightly around a steaming china cup of tea. The rotund Nettles drummed his fingers on the table, nervous and impatient for the maids to bring in the food. Delilah, her father's only daughter, who had rushed out of the library just before the murder, was markedly absent.

"Cain!" Elissa stood, smiling weakly, and gestured for Cain to sit on her left, in the place directly across from the self-satisfied Holland Green. The Earl Hargreaves bowed his head graciously and took the space, aware that everyone in the room had their eyes on him…but Cain was used to being watched. He waited for Elissa to take her seat once more, then followed suit.

After several minutes of silence, a battalion of maids burst in, bearing immense covered dishes. They laid out the platters, then backed out as quickly as they had come in, leaving Cain with the impression that the steaming salvers had appeared of their own accord.

When everyone was busily eating, more to occupy their hands than to fill their bellies, Cain leaned over his food to Elissa. "Is Delilah not to join us?" He tried to keep his voice low, discreet, but he could see that he had failed almost as soon as he had opened his mouth.

"The murderess?!" Nettles squeaked, looking up from his almost empty dish at the sound of the girl's name.

"Delilah is no murderess!" Alistair pushed his glasses up on his nose. "How can you think such a thing?"

Nettles peered at Alistair as though he was having difficulty seeing. He opened his mouth to speak but William Howard Brice stood and leant across the table. "Mr. Nettles is right! All the evidence points to her! Who left the library just before that maid was murdered? And who hasn't been seen since? Who was present for both of the murders?" He took his seat again, triumphantly clinking his glass against Victor's. "Why, none other than the Lady Delilah Fairchild."



Alistair opened and closed his mouth in shock, looking like more than ever like an overgrown bespectacled goldfish. The writer's accusation made horrific sense, even to Alistair's biased logic.

"Now, now, let's not go off accusing people before we have more…_conclusive_ evidence." Cain sipped from his glass, staring around the table. Tensions were high, as could be expected after the sight of Mary's bloody corpse. He noticed that Elissa had her hands clasped over her mouth, looking as though she were about to cry. She seemed so vulnerable; a woman living alone in a house with only her stepdaughter and servants, a woman who had two violent murders marring the perfect façade of her household. Cain touched his cheek thoughtfully. A stepdaughter, servants, and a leech: his eyes drifted to Holland Green, the man in whom Elissa had invested all her trust after the first tragedy. Cain frowned. He held no stock in clairvoyants. Holland definitely looked the part of a scoundrel, his pockmarked skin sallow above his shiny black suit.

As though sensing Cain's eyes on him, Holland slowly turned to face the young Earl, his smile growing intensely wolfish and predatory. Cain smiled back, fighting to keep his expression innocuous. It simply wouldn't do to let the man know that he was suspected. Holland's mouth quirked with a barely concealed snort of mirth, surely thinking that the Earl Hargreaves was a mere boy, simply a pretty youth playing at Sherlock Holmes. The clairvoyant stood and put a hand comfortingly on Elissa's shoulder. His movements drew the attention of the table, and he seemed to swell in size.

_Charisma_, thought Cain. He narrowed his eyes.

"The Earl Hargreaves is right." Cain looked was startled. Agreement was among the last things he had expected to hear from Holland Green. The man's mouth still held the barest hint of a smile as he continued, "We should not accuse anyone until we have heard the facts from the most reliable of witnesses."

The sharp sound of glass shattering came from the direction of William Howard Brice. All heads turned. He had knocked the brandy from the tabletop, the elaborately cut crystal shattered across the floor intermingling with bright golden drops of brandy. His face was red with embarrassment and drink. "T-tell me, Master Green," he began, obviously intent on leading the group's attention away from his clumsiness. "If the victims were alone as they were murdered, how could we possibly have any 'reliable witnesses' to question?"

Holland Green glanced at the writer disdainfully, as though the younger man were nothing but a beetle to be crunched underfoot. "Your question is too entirely rooted in the realms of science, Mr. Brice. As an experienced practitioner of the art of spiritualism," he said, putting great emphasis on the word 'art', "I will, of course, be questioning the victims themselves. Or, to phrase myself more correctly, the poor victims' departed spirits."

For a moment, there was silence. The silence was broken abruptly by Nettles' disbelieving guffaw. "A séance?" he wheezed. "Elissa, you can't say that you honestly believe in this man's spiritualist mumbo jumbo?"



For once, it was the demure Lady Elissa's turn for outrage. "You dare to mock Holland's talent?" Cain noted that she used his first name alone, and wondered if the clairvoyant had managed to transcend his place as mere advisor and confidant. "He has comforted me in a way that no other can! He has allowed me to speak to my poor dead Thomas once again, something none of you here could do after a lifetime of study." Her pretty blue eyes narrowed as she leveled her finger across the table at Nettles. "Speak another word against my good friend, barrister, and you will be shown the door."

The old man raised his hands in surrender. He had not expected Elissa to be so ardently defensive of the medium. "Please, forgive me, Lady Fairchild. Your comfort is of utmost importance to me."

Elissa seemed placated, and she relaxed back into her seat. She was a pale flower once more, passive and pale. "Shall we retire to the parlor?" Her voice had softened back into its usual tone.

Holland offered his hand to her and she took it, allowing herself to be drawn up from the straight-backed chair. Escorting the Lady to the ornate double doors leading into the parlor, he beckoned for the rest of the guests to follow. One by one, they rose from their places to go through the door.

Cain was the last to pass through the doors, and felt the rush of air against his back as they were closed tightly behind him. He was suddenly immersed in darkness, not a single molecule of light reaching his vast black pupils. He heard the rough sound of a sulfur match and the subsequent flicker as a candle flame sputtered into existence. After a moment, his eyes adjusted to the dimness and he moved further toward the center of the room.

The parlor was wreathed in shadow, the single candle projecting wavering silhouettes onto the walls and draperies. Holland Green's face was eerily illuminated as it hovered, disembodied, above the small halo of light. "May I ask that you take your places around the table and join hands?"


End file.
